


His Man Friday

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday considers what it is he owes Morse. Missing scene from Trove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Man Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Back from outer space, guys.

The occasional crack from the ice in the tumbler on the bedside table is the only sound in the room. Thursday has a book propped open on his knees, but his fingers have slackened and the unrestrained pages have surged up from the covers to fan towards the centre.

“What’s this? Scotch in bed? You’ll be trying to bring the pipe up next.” Win slips into the bedroom, giving the drink look of surprise, although not the unqualified disapproval Thursday knows the pipe would garner. She hangs her housecoat on the back of the door before crossing to the bed, glancing at the book in Thursday’s hands. His eyes follow and he retakes a firm grip on the covers, carving out his place with his index finger. 

“What are you brooding on? Morse again?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately, still looking down at his book. It’s an old hardback, pages beginning to come loose from the stitching, and he flattens them down carefully with an even hand, smells the faint scent of dust rising. “Bright stopped by the office tonight on his way out,” he says eventually without looking up, tone carefully neutral. “Said perhaps we’d brought him back too soon after all.”

Pushed down too hard, the paper at the top of the page rips free of the first stitch, then the second. Thursday snaps the book shut and slams it down on the table; in the tumbler, the ice shivers and clinks. “Too soon? We never should have sent him away in the first place.”

“The station’s been in the red for years, hasn’t it? There’s only so long that can continue. You said that’s why they brought Bright in, last year. To listen to the Chief Constable above all else.”

Thursday shakes his head mulishly. “That lad’s a money saver – practically works double shifts, and never remembers to bill the overtime. Even with a game leg he’d’ve earned his keep. He’s plenty of rough edges to him, right enough, but we were sanding them off.” 

“You’re not his mother, Fred,” says Win, softly. “I know you’re fond of him – I am too, we all are – but you don’t need to –”

“Don’t I?” Thursday takes a long drink, savouring the burn. The lamplight catches in the liquid, and it glows like molten flame. “When we shut down Vic Kasper, I told you Morse came back to join the raid. The truth of it is he’s the reason there was a raid. I went in to deal with Vic alone, and he realised it. Came back, told Bright and Strange I’d ordered a raid, and while they were still loading up he came in after me with nothing but the papers that put the noose round Vince Kasper’s neck. He might as well have pinned a target to his front, and he knew it, but he came all the same. Because nothing else would have stopped them – or me. 

“He didn’t just pull my hash out of the fire, Win, he saw justice done. And I let Bright ship him off to Witney with a cut up leg and a cut up heart, as though he were worthless. Half the men there are there because they couldn’t hack it here; the rest I turfed out myself – too bent and too dumb to keep the right insurance. They must’ve had their knives in him the minute he walked in the door. Limped,” he corrects disgustedly, and drains the glass. 

Win squeezes his shoulder. “He’s back now, Fred. You can’t change the past. You have to start from where you are. What do you need to do now?”

Thursday closes his eyes, and lets out his breath in a long sigh. What comes to his mind isn’t Pettifer’s London office, or the Oxford CID and Morse’s furious face, or even Millicent Coke Norris’ front room. It’s the grungy ballroom of the Moonlight Rooms, empty except for cops and robbers, and Morse has just announced that the game is up. 

“I need to have his back,” says Thursday.

“Well, then,” begins Win, and gets no further. From downstairs comes the sound of someone knocking. Win glances at him inquiringly; he pushes back the covers.

On the landing Joan pokes her head out, but withdraws it when she sees him going to deal with it – not for her, then.

Downstairs, the air is cold against his ankles – even in spring, the house is draughty and the night air is chilly. Thursday flips on the porch light to see the shadow of a man’s head, hatless. Younger man then, most likely. He opens the door, and Morse’s face replaces his silhouette. The bruising from the beating in London has come in in full force now, sweeping streaks of purple spread under both eyes. All the same, the lad looks far better than he did the day before. Settled, somehow. His nervous energy is focused, controlled.

“Good evening, sir. I’m sorry – I know it’s late.” He speaks quickly, as though he expects the door to be slammed in his face. Thursday merely raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s about Frida Yelland and Pettifer, sir. I know who did it. I understand if you don’t want to involve me, but please at least –”

“Morse.” The lad shuts up, jaw snapping closed almost audibly, eyes wide and watchful. “Why are you standing on the porch like a bloody carpet salesman? Come in, and I’ll put a brew on. Then you can tell me who did it. And we can decide what to do about it.” He takes the lad by the shoulder and pulls him inside, and closes the door against the cold night air. 

END


End file.
